


Curtain Call

by WanderingStudent



Series: Red Skies [1]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Angst and Humor, Equalist Asami Sato, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Red Skies Year Zero, Wolfbatman AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingStudent/pseuds/WanderingStudent
Summary: Asami finds her voice.(Or, Asami is moody. Amon is a theatre queen.)
Series: Red Skies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961116
Kudos: 1





	Curtain Call

**Author's Note:**

> For context, this work takes place around a year and a half before Year One of Red Skies.

_Thunk._

_Thunk._

_Thunk._

Slowly, heavily, Amon stalked down the empty corridors of the officer’s barracks. He walked with a slump, his head bowed. Under his mask, he could feel the molding wax and paints that made up his scarring _melting_ , wearing off after the trials of a long, _long_ day. He was hungry, thirsty and most of all just _tired._

Plus, every time he yawned, his mask rode up his chin, pulling melted wax and paint into his mouth. He’d been overseeing a chi-blocking class for trainee elites, and had approached a pair to critique their form. When they’d asked him for an opinion, he’d had to take a moment to yawn – and then had been forced to excuse himself, lest he puke all over their boots.

He didn’t want to think about the impression he’d left them with.

He wanted to relax in his study, in his _comfortable_ chair. He wanted to drink five-flavours soup and listen to the classics on the radio, and then he wanted to crawl into bed. Most of all, he didn’t want to _speak._ Nevermind that his mouth tasted like an easel, he had spent hours orating; at three separate locations throughout the city, then back at headquarters, looking over the elite classes.

And _then_ he had to go to two more assemblies tomorrow, and perform again. When he’d first started his rallies, he’d loved it – he craved the rush, the familiar buzz that only a roaring crowd, hanging on his every word could generate.

Roaring, praising, _validating._

Now, though, the constant need for appearances was beginning to grate at him. The script was always the same, and while he preened on stage the Equalists were beginning to grow into something overlarge and unwieldy.

A small glob of wax slid down his face, threatening to enter his mouth. His face twitched under the mask, and he fought the urge to just rip it off and begin rubbing at his face like he had pentapox –

Ahead of him, Liu appeared, turning the corner with a stack of papers. Amon immediately snapped into an upright power stance, moving forward with a careful, practiced stride.

“Amon!” Liu called out.

_Spirits, no,_ Amon cringed. _Don’t look at me._ He could feel the melted wax sliding over his top lip.

“Latest batch of reports and applications,” Liu offered, like Amon didn’t need more work. He sped up ever so slightly. He could see the door to his study, just ahead – if he could get to it before Liu got to him he could just slip in and lock the door behind him –

The wax dribbled into his mouth.

Amon stopped dead in the hallway, fighting the urge to retch. _Spirits,_ he thought, _was this stuff even foodsafe?_ Even if he didn’t choke on his own vomit he’d be out with food poisoning for who knows how long.

Liu was suddenly in front of him, holding out the cursed stack of paperwork like a birthday gift. He had an innocent, questioning look on his face.

“Sir?”

Amon couldn’t speak; he was too busy trying not to empty his lunch. He held out a hand, trying to get Liu to step back so he could compose himself;

“All of it? You’re too kind, sir –“

Amon was powerless to stop Liu hefting the entire stack of paperwork onto him. Behind the mask, he glared at him. Liu smiled back, oblivious. Amon wanted to rip his stupid rat-tail moustache off, but first he had to recover from inhaling the waxy remnants of his tragic backstory.

“I’ll see you at supper, sir,” Liu said, passing him with a slight incline of his head. Amon looked down at the stack of paperwork in his hands and contemplated dissolving the Equalists right then and there. He could always go back into theatre, after all –

“By the way,” Liu called, now several feet down the hallway, “I hear the chef is whipping up his special broth – onion and banana.”

Amon slid gracefully into his study – or at least as gracefully as a man could while dry heaving.

* * *

An interminable amount of time later (and after thoroughly washing his face and mouth out) Amon was sat at his desk, mask off – and door securely locked. He was hunched over, pen slowly _scritch-scratching_ through an unfathomable mass of applications, inventory reports, and intelligence.

He reasoned, though, that this was the price for the Equalist’s massive swell in numbers – he simply hadn’t figured out how to properly dictate the new responsibilities to his command staff yet. Not even a year ago, he wouldn’t have _dreamed_ of such an increase in numbers; it seemed the recent unrest at the border had taken more of a toll on the morale of the city than he thought. He leafed through a series of applications and their accompanying background checks, finding a diverse range of prospective recruits – small business owners, students - even _housewives._ The kinds of people that would have never even considered joining a year or so ago. 

_Like sailors turning to saltwater from unquenchable thirst,_ Amon mused. _Although I would hope that I have something tangible to reward them with, at the end of all this._

It was difficult to visualise the end though - Amon imagined it lay somewhere beneath this stack of hellish paperwork. He willed his hand across the page, ticking boxes and circling mistakes. There was such a varying range of handwriting quality on display, he was beginning to wonder if the new Equalist recruits were coming from grade school. He actually found himself squinting in confusion at one inventory report, struggling to make out a particularly impenetrable line of text.

_What is that? Is that – ‘truck’ or is it – wait, wait, I think it’s a doodle of a Metalbender with stink lines coming off him._

Amon appreciated the sentiment, but there was a time and a place. He was now doubly convinced that they had started poaching recruits outside Dragon Flats schoolyards.

With a tired sigh, he set his pen down, reclining in his chair. He looked up, examined the ceiling for several moments, finding nothing of note except a growing patch of damp in one corner. He raised one hand, almost on instinct. He could feel the moisture in the wall, it would be a simple matter, to just pull it out, to _fix_ it -

_Ah._

Amon dropped his hand. He considered it for several moments, trying to purge the thought of how the water had felt, trapped in the wall, pliable and utterly _his_.

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

_I need a break._

* * *

Minutes later, Amon was stalking the corridors again, mask securely in place. He took great pains not to yawn, though – he hadn’t yet replaced his makeup, and someone catching sight of his unmarred chin would only make an already difficult day impossible to deal with.

His stomach rumbled angrily. Now was as good a time as any to eat, he reasoned. Supper was still an hour or so away, but hopefully he could get the chefs to scrape together something.

_Or,_ he grinned under his mask, _I could always send Liu out to Narook’s. Since I’m taking care of the paperwork it’s only fair that he play delivery man._ He could already _taste_ the seaweed noodles, the sharp bite of the salt and brine.

Amon only got a few moments into his hunt for Liu before something else caught his attention – a low hum drifting down the corridor from parts unseen. He found himself following it, tracing the source of the sound through the corridors as it grew from a low hum into distinct voices, quietly echoing from somewhere ahead of him.

There were two voices, each taking turns to sing. He didn’t recognise the song, but the melody seemed vaguely familiar – perhaps it was a new jazz hit he’d heard on the radio in passing. He kept walking, kept listening, until the voices were clear and close. He could hear them properly now; a crooning male baritone and a silky female drawl, drifting out one after the other.

He realised, with a start, that he was at the door to Asami’s workshop. The usually-locked door was – open, just a crack. _Not intentionally_ , he reasoned – _rather, left ajar_?

Amon pushed the door open as gently as was possible, just as the voices drifted off.

In the middle of the workshop, at the central worktable, Asami was arms deep in an engine – or at least, he assumed it was Asami. He could only make out a shaggy mop of black hair - the rest was hidden behind the bulk of the engine.

At the corner of the table, a small radio was playing – a radio host squawked out an intermission, _Choi’s Jazz Hour continues, stay tuned for more -_ presumably, it had been playing the melody that the singing had accompanied. He looked around, taking in the rest of the room. Had the singing just been the radio? The acoustics of the compound’s corridors were fantastic, it wouldn’t surprise him.

He did see a _very_ expensive-looking coat discarded in the corner, crumpled and lifeless. Amon turned back to the centre worktable – Asami was looking at him, eyes peering over the bulk of the engine. There was purple blotching around her eyes, and for a moment, he thought it was bruising; he realised it was the remnants of eyeshadow, poorly removed.

The two looked at each other for several moments. There was something in Asami’s gaze, a tiredness, maybe? The girl spent so much time with a stony, expressionless look on her face that it made her difficult to read physically.

Regardless, he’d been mentoring her for six years now – he knew how to handle one of her moods, even if he couldn’t figure out exactly what kind of mood it was.

He didn’t say anything – no, that’s the last thing he wanted to do. Instead, he began to move around the workshop, examining it like one would a museum exhibit. He moved over to one of the tool racks, examining a socket wrench like it held some great hidden truth.

Asami didn’t react, apparently still absorbed in the inner workings of the engine.

Amon moved over to another table, where another project of Asami’s lay, disassembled. He took in the drawings and scraps of cloth discarded all over the work surface; he picked up a piece of paper for closer examination.

Behind him, he could hear the metallic sounds of work stop.

Under his mask, Amon lifted an impressed eyebrow. If these sketches and designs were anything to go by, it seemed like she was trying to rework the rank-and-file’s uniform to add in additional protection against bending attacks. The sketches on the page were heavily annotated, laden with stream-of-consciousness style notes and musings.

He heard Asami let out a tiny sigh.

Amon scanned the notes, leafing through the pages, the paper rustling _just_ a little too loudly. Asami was suggesting alternative materials for the bodysuits themselves. _Leather_ had been hastily scribbled out, despite its obvious increase in durability. _Too stiff,_ the page had answered back. _Flexibility a must – perhaps examine waterbender fire crews? Materials may prove useful._ Her dilligence, as always, was impressive – although Amon didn’t want to think how much it would cost to manufacture and distribute a new uniform across their cell, never mind an entire city’s worth of Equalists.

There was something else on the worktable in front of him – a newspaper, crumpled and creased. _Republic City Prophet._ It had been turned to the business section, and his eyes scanned the columns; _Labour Shortages on Fire Nation Mainland – Future Industries rumored to begin public shares float – Varrick Industries investigated for suspected arms manufacturing –_ Amon brought the paper up to read.

Behind him, a tool _thunked_ heavily against a wooden surface. He could hear Asami mumbling and catching herself, struggling to find words.

He turned to look at her. Asami was staring down at her worktop, hands braced against the bulk of the partially disassembled engine. Slowly, he approached the worktable, until he was standing across from her, with only the skeletal engine between them. He was careful not to _loom_ like he normally did around subordinates – he just wanted to make it clear that she had gotten his attention, that he was ready if she was.

Asami murmured something inaudible.

“Come again?”

“I _said,_ I messed up,” she grunted, straightening up and letting Amon get a good look at her for the first time. She was well-dressed, or rather, had been at some point – she’d rolled up the sleeves of her fitted vermillion shirt and unbuttoned her waistcoat, and was liberally splattered with motor oil. As Amon wondered exactly what Asami was talking about, he was was reminded of a conversation, words traded piecemeal over breakfast in the officer’s mess. Asami had dashed through the tables, breakfast stuffed into her mouth and a bulging duffel bag under one arm. _Back in a week,_ she’d said. _Got important things to do_ , she’d said.

Amon hadn’t replied – he’d been too busy manoeuvring rice underneath his mask. He’d simply grunted and nodded.

Given that it hadn’t even been a full day since Asami had left, he assumed something had happened. He wasn’t entirely sure what that something _was_ , though, since Asami had been too busy inhaling breakfast to tell him what she was up to in the first place.

However, there were enough clues for Amon to roughly piece together what had happened. The most obvious; Asami’s wardrobe. The girl practically lived in her Equalist uniform, so for her to actually try and dress herself respectably it must have been something incredibly important – and _makeup_ as well! Smudged eyeshadow, the remnants of mascara – and smears of red across the tight line of her mouth. _Not blood,_ he mused, _for once._

Secondly, the newspaper. The news of Future Industries going public must have come as an unpleasant surprise to Asami, who had often shared her plans to return to the company as CEO – albeit a little further down the line, and with a few new inventions under her wing. She’d certainly spent enough time talking Amon’s ear off about it, whenever she wasn’t busy tinkering or training.

Thirdly, the unlocked workshop. Asami rarely let anyone besides Amon or Liu in, and even then she was notoriously cagey about letting them see her unfinished projects. Usually it took an offering from Kwong’s or Narook’s to soften her up, at which point she’d excitedly show him around and explain her latest undertaking, often with her mouth full.

Amon imagined Asami coming back to the compound, flinging the door open, hurling that _very_ expensive looking coat off – _really, Asami, we can’t all afford to ruin nice clothes –_ and burying herself in work to drown out whatever awful feeling the day had churned up.

“You went back to Future Industries, I assume?”

“Obviously,” Asami grumbled. “Had to do something before they ended up selling out the entire company.”

For a moment, Amon considered lecturing Asami. _You should have waited, Asami. You should have made a plan, Asami. You shouldn’t have panicked and rushed out, Asami. You really should stop beating me over the head with that socket wrench, Asami._

He decided against it.

_Best to help her try and decompress, let it out._

“And after you left the compound?”

“I went straight to the tower. I – well not right away, I had to change and I figured I had to get made up a little, so –“ Asami cringed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with blackened fingers. “I stopped off at this parlor and…basically asked what looked good. Must have looked like an absolute idiot…”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he replied, gracefully ignoring the large black mark Asami had left on her face.

“You didn’t see me twitching every time they came near my eyes. It took them an _hour_ ,” Asami murmured. “An _hour!_ And then I had to remember not to touch my face or eat or anything.”

“That’s…rough, buddy.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. And then?”

“And then I…” Asami gesticulated wildly and with no small amount of frustration. “Then I messed up! I went to that tower and I barged into the boardroom and I – couldn’t – even – _speak!”_ She buried her face in her hands, cursing quietly. Suddenly the ruined eyeshadow made a lot of sense. “I had this whole speech I’d been rehearsing on the ride over, but when I got there and they all just _looked_ at me, I couldn’t get it out.”

Amon understood _that._

He remembered being nineteen. He remembered dozens, no, _hundreds_ of pairs of eyes looking at him.

He remembered the feeling of still-drying makeup, slashes of red above his eyes beginning to sweat under theatre lights.

He remembered words rising in his throat, proud motion in every limb – and all of it just _freezing_.

He remembered the absolute mortification of it all, shame burning in his eyes and roiling in his stomach.

“…Amon?”

“Hm?”

“…What are you doing?” Asami was looking at him like he’d grown a second head. Distantly, he realised that his hand was on Asami’s shoulder, squeezing gently. He pulled it back abruptly, clearing his throat quietly.

“Apologies. I…assume you came back here, then?”

“I drove for a bit, actually,” Asami turned back to the engine. “Tried to figure out some way to fix the whole mess. Didn’t work, so I came back here, to _this_ thing.” She rapped the engine with her knuckles. “This is what I know. _This_ is what I do.”

“And...what have you done?”

“...I’ve learned that this engine’s _fucked.”_

“I would assume so,” Amon mused, “Unless you enjoy disassembling perfectly good engines for the sport of it?”

Asami snorted and returned to work, picking up her discarded tool. “Pulled it out of a bike that one of the messengers drove in. Horrible condition. Horrible _bike,_ full stop, but that’s what we get for sourcing from the cops...”

“We could always obtain motorcycles from Cabbage Corp, if you’d prefer?”

Asami glanced up at him, eyes narrow and unamused. Amon held up his hands in mock surrender, watching as she turned back to the engine. He watched her work, silent.

The possibility that Asami might lose Future Industries, or at the very least her prospective position of control was very real, and it wasn’t one Amon liked to entertain. They’d been able to set up several impressive underground factories and production plants, but they desperately needed to be supplemented with resources and external facilities – and now that the Equalists were getting larger by the day, it was growing harder and harder to properly supply every single cell.

He grimaced underneath his mask. He _needed_ Asami to make this work.

“Asami.”

“Hmm?”

“Just because you had a bad...performance, it’s not the end of the world. I would be _more_ than happy to help you with –“

“No,” Asami gave a decisive crank of her socket wrench for emphasis.

Amon bristled. “Asami. I have been where you are. It would only take a few hours to –“

“I said _no!”_ Asami barked. Amon stepped back slightly, more out of surprise than anything. It had been years since she’d last raised her voice to him.

“I mean it. I am not going back and I – there is _nothing_ I can do.” Asami turned away from him, trying to bury herself in the engine. “Not right now. Please, _please_ just let me work.”

_More problems._ It was all beginning to pile up. First the paperwork, now _this_ , and the performances tomorrow, and then _everything_ that would come after that -

His stomach rumbled, indignant at being forgotten.

“...Have you eaten?” He spoke up. Asami paused, but didn’t turn around – she just grunted. Amon’s years of Asami-experience told him that a grunt of this particular cadence meant _no._

“Supper’s in an hour. I could get you something if you want to keep working?” 

“Isn’t tonight broth night?” Asami’s voice was quiet.

“...Indeed. How about Narook’s?”

“…Make sure Liu gets my order correct. He keeps forgetting.”

“I’ll let him know,” Amon said, making for the door of the workshop. Maybe they’d both think better after a decent meal. His hand curled around the doorframe, when something occurred to him.

“By the way –“

Asami glanced up at him from her work, expression sour.

“You weren’t…singing, were you?” Amon asked, haltingly.

Her expression flattened – in confusion, maybe? “I – I don’t think so? Maybe it’s the radio. The acoustics –“

“Are really good, yes. Anyhow…I’ll speak to Liu.”

“Mm,” Asami was already turning back, trying to engross herself in the inner workings of the engine again.

Amon walked out of the workshop, the door still open behind him.

He began his walk to the officer’s mess, looking forward to the look on Liu’s face when he sent him on _another_ meal run when an unfamiliar voice – a rich male baritone – began to echo through the corridors again.

He looked over his shoulder, sighing. _That is a bit distracting._

Turning, Amon headed back towards the source of the singing. As…novel as it was, it wouldn’t do for a radio to be blaring at all hours through the compound.

He rounded the corner and spied the door to the workshop. He stepped towards it, and looked in –

The radio was still on the desk, blaring tinny music and vocals, but it wasn’t the source of the voice.

Asami was still in the middle of the room, still occupied with the motorcycle engine.

But something was _off._

Amon could _plainly see_ her mouth moving, forming the words, echoing the radio, but it wasn’t _her_ voice. It was like there was someone right beside her, an invisible man belting out the lyrics like no one was watching. Because there was no _way_ that was Asami speaking.

Honestly, the whole picture was kind of freaky.

“I -,” Amon was too bewildered to form a complete sentence.

Asami startled, looking up at him as her not-voice died. Her face quickly coloured with embarrassment, turning an impressive shade of crimson.

“...What?” Asami squeaked.

* * *

Asami walked down the corridors, footsteps heavy and mood heavier. It had been bad enough that she’d washed out of the board meeting earlier – now she’d managed to humiliate herself in front of Amon. She groaned, rubbing a hand over her (now cleaned) face as she remembered how Amon had looked at her.

To be honest, it wasn’t as much a _look_ as it was a general _mood_ – there was only so much emotion you could glean from a person’s eyes. Amon had stood in the doorway of her workshop for almost a full minute, shoulders slumped and head tilted like some kind of leather-clad monolith of bemusement. Asami had been stuck, standing there like a damn clown with her ruined makeup and her messy workshop and her _useless fucking voice_ that wouldn’t stop warbling and cracking as she struggled to articulate more than a single syllable to explain.

Amon had left – no, he hadn’t left, that implied it was casual, ordinary. Amon had bolted – after taking the time to close the door firmly behind him, Asami had heard his bulk pounding down the length of the corridor, and her already terrible mood had taken a nosedive.

_Probably to tell Liu or something. Spirits, I’m such a fucking mess._

Things had only gotten worse after that. An hour later, there’d been another knock on the door. She’d opened it up, breath catching in her throat, expecting Amon.

It had just been another nameless officer, all features hidden beneath their mask.

Asami had been handed a note, then left on her own, _again_. She’d opened it, apprehensive.

_Asami,_

_Meet me in my study. I need to speak to you._

Speak to her – what did that even mean? Speak to her about her outburst? How she’d practically thrown a tantrum and then made a fool of herself not minutes later?

Amon’s study was at the end of the corridor, and with every step it grew closer, _closer_. Asami could feel herself locking up, feel her throat closing with thick shame. She felt helplessly exposed – even though she’d changed back into her uniform, it wasn’t enough. Her mask was hanging off her belt, and she had to fight the urge to tug it on and disappear beneath it, hidden under layers of cloth and metal.

The door was in front of her, now. Simple metal, unadorned – but it might as well have been a fortress wall, for all that Asami felt she could open it.

Spirits, why was she _such a child?_ Couldn’t save the company, couldn’t keep her cool with her mentor, couldn’t even open a _damned door –_

Her eyes were burning. She told herself it was from the last flakes of the mascara.

She found herself pacing back and forth in front of the door. Would she speak first? Would he? What would they even speak about? If it _was_ to reprimand her, how would she plead? She knew she was guilty as sin, no question – but would she grovel? Beg? Plead for him to forget this _one_ lapse of control?

_No._ That would make things even worse, she realised. She’d already lost her composure once, and to do it _again,_ for whatever reason, would be inexcusable. She would stand straight, and speak proud, and if he accused her of weakness she would damn well admit it, and if he sent some kind of punishment her way she would take it like a soldier.

She reached out to knock the steel door.

There was the tiniest, barely audible noise from behind it.

She brought her fist down to knock.

The door swung open.

_Thok._

_Thok._

_Thok._

Asami felt her stomach disappear into her large intestine.

Amon stood in front of her, mask slightly askew after she’d rapped it on the forehead – she couldn’t see his eyes, but she could imagine them narrowed at her, in some interesting mix of surprise and disgust.

_Oh spirits._ _Thinkthinkthinkthink._

With a deliberate slowness, Amon fixed his mask, turning his gaze on Asami.

_Can’t think. Panicking. Run on instinct._

Asami rapped Amon on the mask twice more.

_Instincts bad._

Against what she could only assume was Amon’s better judgement, or karma, or any basic law of action-reaction, Amon simply stepped back, beckoning her into his study. Asami stepped in, fighting the urge to cringe with fresh embarrassment.

She’d only been in this room once or twice before, but it had been empty, unfurnished; now several bookcases lined the walls with shelves bent under the weight of books, and the space was filled with wide tables and comfortable chairs. Asami frowned as she took it in - the main Equalist cell had changed the location of their headquarters so many times it was a wonder Amon had even bothered to furnish it.

Wordlessly, Amon passed her, and sat down at the nearest table. He looked to her, expectant. Asami quickly took the hint, and slipped into the chair across from him. She met his gaze, waiting patiently for the first word, the first reprimand.

Amon reached below the table.

Asami stiffened.

Amon produced a takeout container from Narook’s, and set it on the table.

Asami loosened.

“Sorry for the wait. Liu took his sweet time,” Amon said, pushing the box over to her. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already eaten.”

“Don’t…worry about it…” Asami murmured, eyes still glued to the food container.

_You’re telling me I spent the last five minutes having a mental breakdown over an invitation to supper?_

“Asami?”

“…Yeah?”

“It tastes better when you eat it.”

Asami’s cheeks blazed, and she quickly set about opening up and eating her meal. She had been so caught up in the stress and emotion of the day that she’d almost forgotten entirely about food - and the moment she caught a whiff of crispy arctic hen it became painfully apparent how long it had been since breakfast.

To her credit, she didn’t inhale the meal, but she wasted no time in eating. Even though Liu had gotten the order wrong _again._ _Extra prunes, not none, you moustachioed prick!_

When the last of the hen had disappeared, Asami sank back into her chair, sighing with relief.

“Better?”

“Mm,” Asami gave a pleased grunt. All the worry she’d carried into the room had been almost forgotten – but not completely. Amon was still watching her like he had something to say. She readjusted herself in her seat, leaning forward slightly.

“I’m guessing you didn’t call me here just to make sure I didn’t forget to eat again?”

“You would be right.”

Asami inhaled. _Right, here we go. You knew this was gonna happen, but don’t worry, he doesn’t even seem that mad –_

Amon produced a bundle of cloth from beneath the table, setting it beside the empty takeout container.

Asami’s eyes narrowed.

A perfect replica of Amon’s uniform sat on the table in front of her.

It looked strangely limp on its own.

“I have a _mission_ for you, Asami.”

* * *

“Run this by me again, I still don’t know why I’m doing this…”

“It’s _very_ simple Asami – _stop moving –_ I have a packed schedule. And it’s only going to get more packed as the Equalists grow in numbers.”

“I think it sounds – _ridiculous._ There is _no_ way I can see this working.”

“That’s because I have a _singular_ vision.”

“So I’m meant to take this on faith?”

“You won’t need to, when we’re done,” Amon murmured, bringing the measuring tape up to measure the breadth of Asami’s shoulders.

Asami, who had been dressed up _exactly_ like Amon, save for the mask.

“It’s not that I don’t think you know what you’re doing, because you obviously – do – _not_ \- _why do you have so many needles?”_

“They’re called clothespins, Asami.”

“I don’t care what they’re called, _be careful!”_

Amon flattened down the excess fabric of Asami’s right sleeve, before securing it with a deft movement and a not-needle. He took a measurement around her bicep, before moving onto her left arm.

As Amon flattened the sleeve and produced another clothespin, Asami struggled not to flinch. Amon was inserting and withdrawing the pins so quickly it was difficult to not let her training take over and begin whirling out of the way of an attack.

“Asami, you can _relax._ ”

“Look, I really would appreciate it if you could just…dial it down,” Asami muttered. “Your uniform isn’t form fitting, is the perfect fit really important?”

“It’ll be visible when you move, or if you’re ever fighting. Or if someone even looks at you closely,” Amon murmured. “I need to know what I’m working with, so I know how to alter and pad the uniform. You _do_ have muscle, Asami – just not enough.”

Silence reigned for several more moments.

“You can alter clothes?” Asami murmured quietly.

“Is that hard to believe?” Amon asked.

“I – I just never pictured you sewing,” Asami breathed. The image came to her suddenly – Amon bent over a pair of slacks, tongue stuck out through the mask in concentration. She let out a sudden snort, then jerked when she felt a tiny sting on the back of her left thigh.

“ _Stop moving,”_ Amon hissed, somewhere beneath her. She glanced down, watching him crawl around her legs like some oversized masked toddler.

_Well, I wish I could unthink_ that.

“…So where exactly _did_ you learn how to do this?” she asked, trying to get her mind off the bizarre image.

“…Do you really need to know?”

“No…but I wouldn’t mind hearing about it – I mean, if it’s alright with you. _Sir_.”

“Ease up on the _Sir_ , and I’ll tell you.”

“Yes, s –“ Asami was stuck hissing as she looked for a graceful verbal segue.

“You sound like a leaky pipe.”

“Don’t tell me you can plumb, too?”

“Mind the lip. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Asami muttered, a tiny smirk on her face.

Amon straightened up in front of her, smoothing out his rumpled tunic. He turned, walking over to the desk at the end of the room. He brought a hand up, hesitant – and then pushed down his hood. Asami watched him run a hand through his hair as he turned to face her again, settling against his desk. If Asami had been intrigued before she was completely hooked now – Amon had told her a hundred stories in the past of his training and experiences, but he’d never looked _nervous._

“I must have been…nineteen, I think. It feels like forever ago – I had just come into Gaoling, and I was running low on supplies and money. I’d never intended to stop, but there was _no way_ I was going to get where I was going with what I had left,” Amon was quiet, considerate in his words.

“And where was that?”

“Kyoshi Island.”

“But you said you visited Kyoshi Island when you were – twenty-three, right?” Asami frowned.

“Asami, I’d love if you would let me _finish_ my story before you started poking holes in it.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway – I obviously needed a way to make money, but there weren’t many opportunities open for me. I ended up working in a tiny restaurant, waiting tables, washing dishes, sweeping. Just two months of that, of drudgery.”

“I’m, uh, sure you did a good job.”

“The restaurant never looked better, I’ll have you know. I was closing up, one night, when I heard a ruckus. I went out, checked – it was a travelling caravan; writers, poets, actors, the like. Two days later I was at one of their shows – I think it was a production of _The Moon’s Lament.”_

“I – I don’t think I’ve heard of that one?”

“You’re not missing anything. The plot was ropey, cheap drama – typical of so much postwar fiction, really. The talent, though – it was something else,” Amon’s voice was drifting slightly, almost wistful in its softness. “Three carriages worth of actors, timber and paint turned into the Northern Water Tribe overnight. You should have _seen_ it, Asami – there were moments I swore I was looking at Sokka himself. And the scene of Yue’s ascension – the lighting, the music – I’d never seen anything like that before -”

“Thought I wasn’t missing anything?”

“The talent, Asami, not the story, was what made that production. It wasn’t by virtue of the author alone – or perhaps even at all – that that experience affected me. It was the craft of the performer, the theatricality that elevated it. And that is why the day after, I handed my boss my resignation and headed for that caravan. I wanted to be able to do that – to get into someone’s head, to grab their attention, to inspire, to _thrill,”_ Amon’s voice was picking up again, growing stronger.

“To lie?”

Amon glanced at her, dropping off again. “…No. A performer – a _good_ performer, rather, doesn’t lie. A good performer, who _believes_ in what they are doing, can lift people up. And I knew, that if I understood it, that if I could do that, with nothing but a story – imagine what I could do with the truth?”

“So then…you became an actor at nineteen?”

“Oh, _ah_ , not exactly. They let me join the caravan, but…” Amon drifted off, hesitation in his tone. Asami narrowed her eyes, curious.

“But?”

“But I…endedupwashingdishesagain –“

“ _Pfft._ ”

“It was an entry level job, Asami. I couldn’t expect to walk in and run the place – stop laughing. _Stop laughing._ ”

Asami was fighting the urge to double over, snickering to herself.

“It’s not that funny, Asami,” Amon sighed.

Asami didn’t think it was possible for someone to look offended through a full facemask, but the night kept surprising her.

“Do you want me to finish, or are you just going to keep laughing? We can go back to the clothespins anytime, you know.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Sorry, that was… _sorry_ ,” Asami coughed, trying to compose herself.

“As I was saying –“

“ _Heh._ ”

“Asami!”

“ _As. I. Was. Say-ing,”_ Amon intoned, fixing Asami with a glare for several moments. “I couldn’t just start as talent. I had to work my way up. Starting with the small jobs, doing the very best I could at every little thing, just so the right people would give me a second glance. It was _bitter_ work. But it was worth every second. Four months after I joined, I was a stagehand. Two months after that, I was in wardrobe – and in lighting a few weeks after that. I learned _every_ little thing that goes into a successful production. And a year later, I made it onto stage. I was one of two leads in _Kyoshi’s Kiss._ ”

“Hang on, I know that one,” Asami muttered. She looked Amon over for a moment. She pictured the features underneath the mask – the sharp cheekbones, the piercing gaze and the nearly-permanent power stance. With the right makeup, she supposed, he would fit the role just fine. “Hm. I suppose you could make a decent Kyoshi.”

Amon looked at her, frowning. “What do you mean? I played Rangi.”

“But – wait.” All of a sudden Asami was imagining the final scene of the novel, last read when she was sixteen and had gone rifling through Amon’s fiction collection on a whim, stumbling upon the written play. She struggled to imagine all six feet of Amon, nearly twenty years younger, being dipped for the final, melodramatic love scene.

“Asami, you’re making a face.”

“But – that’s – then who played Kyoshi?”

“ _Ah –_ the name escapes me. Water Tribe woman, I believe, maybe...fifteen years older? She was coming through the company at the same time as me but left soon after. Kanna, Koda, Kikuk, K-something-or-other.”

“Was she...taller?” Asami was still trying to piece the image together in her head in a way that made sense.

“What? No, she was...something like five inches shorter, I think.”

The image fell apart in Asami’s head like the wheels on her first CabbageCycle.

“But that would look _ridiculous._ Kyoshi was famously tall – no, I don’t see it. There’s no way that could have worked.”

“And yet it did. That’s the _point_ , Asami! You would be very surprised what a little theatrical skill can accomplish.”

Asami remained skeptical.

“Skill and some generous lifts.”

“ _Ah_.”

“Anyhow, we’re getting sidetracked. Can we continue now?”

“Sure,” Asami murmured. “You wanna stick some more needles in me?”

“Actually, I’ve got everything I need,” Amon replied, pushing off from the desk. “I’ll take care of the uniform later on – but we’re not done.”

“What now, then?”

“You _are_ going to be speaking, Asami – why do you think I came up with this idea in the first place?” Amon folded his arms, standing opposite her. “I need that voice of yours.”

Asami groaned, feeling embarrassment flare in her gut. “I don’t think I can –“

Amon held out a hand, silencing her gently. “Asami. I don’t know if you realise, but you weren’t just singing with a deep voice – you were singing with a different one entirely. I couldn’t hear _you_ at all. I think you very much _can_ do what I’m asking.”

Asami shuffled awkwardly, uncertain. Part of her felt naked, exposed – this wasn’t something she’d planned on sharing with anybody, much less Amon, and she certainly wasn’t convinced that she’d be able to pull off a reasonable impression regardless. Still, she’d be lying if the idea didn’t excite her, just the tinest bit. She’d been doing nothing but fiddling with engines and radios for the past month, and after the debacle at Future Industries she’d tried to simply slide back into that, but it hadn’t been enough to distract her, or to bury the shame she felt at slipping up so badly.

Maybe this, ridiculous as it was, was the perfect thing to get her back on track.

Asami exhaled, slowly. “Okay.”

Amon nodded. “Very well.” He straightened, slipping his hands behind his back, the rare vulnerability of the last five minutes melting away. There was curiosity, calculation and intent in his eyes – this was the man who had trained her.

“Asami, recite the following.”

She nodded, waiting patiently.

Amon spoke.

“ _A tutor who tooted the flute tried to tutor two tooters to toot. Said the two to the tutor, "Is it harder to toot or to tutor two tooters to toot_?”

Silence reigned for a moment. Asami stared blankly.

“Is there a problem, Asami?”

“N – no.”

“Well then – _go ahead._ ”

Asami took a deep breath, focused, and then spoke.

“ _A tutor who tooted the floo-ute – tried to tutor two tooters to toot. Soot – “_

Amon looked at her, watching as her voice tumbled out of her like water through a fracturing dam, warbling violently through various pitches.

“I’m sorry, let me – let me try again. Okay…”

* * *

_Thirty minutes later_

Asami groaned in frustration as Amon held out a hand, cutting her off again. He didn’t appear to be doing as well either, his iron composure slowly wearing away. Asami was pretty sure she saw him rolling his eyes.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Asami sputtered, threading frustrated fingers through her hair. “This usually never happens.”

Amon muttered something to himself. Asami wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it sounded suspiciously like ‘I’ve heard _that_ before.’ She ignored it as he paced on the spot, apparently struggling to come up with something that could help.

“If you could just start speaking _along_ with me, maybe that would help?” Asami suggested, a little desperate. “I usually just… _sing_ , you know, I don’t think about it too hard, it just happens.”

“No.”

_“Why not?”_

“Because that’s not going to achieve anything. Unless you want me to hide in the shadows and speak to you _while_ you speak to someone else?”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“Language.”

“ _Ugh.”_

“Okay, okay,” Amon murmured, more to himself than to Asami. “We know that you _can_ physically achieve what we’re going for, so it has to be something psychosomatic.” He began circling her like a piranha-dolphin scenting blood. A piranha-dolphin that was muttering to itself.

“If you have an idea, please share it with the class,” Asami muttered, exasperated. After half an hour of failing to replicate Amon’s voice -or any male voice at all for that matter- she didn’t feel exposed like she thought she would.

She just felt fucking stupid.

“Alright, alright, _alright._ I have an idea, I have an idea…” Amon yanked off his mask without ceremony. “Put this on.”

Asami took the mask, glancing back up at him. “Why aren’t you wearing your makeup?”

“Molding wax and facepaint wasn’t designed to last for eighteen hours without getting a little…runny.”

“Ew.”

“Yes.”

“No, _ew._ Look!”

Asami turned the mask around, exposing the inside of it. It was caked with patches of smudged reds, pinks and browns – and Asami could do without dwelling on the way that the thing smelt.

“When was the last time you washed this thing?”

“I – _well_ – “

“I’m not wearing this,” Asami muttered, tossing the mask back to Amon, who caught it awkwardly, cradling it in his arms. He looked up at her, bewildered and somewhat offended.

“I’m sorry, which one of us regularly wears perfume from the _Car Grease_ collection?”

“I have had enough crap on my face today. I don’t plan on wearing any more!”

“It’s just a _little_ –“

“No.”

“Please –“

“Uh-uh.”

“Come on –“

“Nada!”

“ _Asami –“_

“Zip! Shut it!”

“ _Fine._ Fine! You can have an unpainted one.” Amon retrieved a blank white version of his mask from his desk, before tossing it over to Asami. She plucked it out of the air, looking at it curiously. Something occurred to her.

“Why do you have spares of the uniform ready but not the mask?”

“ _Oh spirits preserve me –_ please just put it on,” Amon sighed weakly, before replacing his own mask.

Taking no small amount of satisfaction in her verbal victory, Asami put on the blank mask.

“Now what?”

“Now – we’re going to do a little exercise. I learned it when I had to raise the pitch of my voice for playing Rangi.”

“Do I really need the mask –“

“ _Yes you do._ It’s called getting _into_ your character.”

“Whatever you say,” Asami muttered. _Theatre queen._

“Okay, it’s very simple, and it _works._ I could pull off a convincing female voice, but you can already perfectly replicate a male one. You just need to know how to do it on command.”

Amon took center stage in the middle of the room. “We’re going to reverse it for you, of course,” he continued. “But the principle remains – we distract the mental with the physical. You stand, hit a high note, and then _sink_ into a crouch position, dropping your pitch at the same time. _Observe.”_

Amon let out a long high note – an unmistakable, impressive female tenor. He then slowly dropped into a squat with a flourish of his hands, his voice deepening into a deep, throaty male baritone as he did.

It was the stupidest thing Asami had seen tonight, and that was saying something.

Amon hopped back to his feet. “Okay, now you try.”

Asami shuffled awkwardly, mumbling something under her breath.

“Asami, you need to speak up. I can’t hear you with the mask on.”

“…Do I have to?”

“Do you – _yes?”_ Amon was puzzled. “This works, Asami, what’s the problem?”

“It just looks…”

“Looks what?”

Asami was about to reply, but she stopped herself. She _did_ want to learn this, after all.

“Alright, can you do it with me, at least?”

“Asami –“

“ _Please._ It’ll help.” If she was going to look stupid she wasn’t going to do it on her own.

Amon simply sighed.

* * *

Liu trudged down the corridor towards Amon’s study. Amon hadn’t come out to the mess ever since Liu had dropped off the takeout order beside his door. He knew full well that Amon wasn’t the _biggest_ fan of onion-banana, but he almost always made an appearance at officer’s supper if only for the sake of morale.

He suspected it might have had something to do with the food he’d gotten. All Amon had told him was ‘Get the usual – and _stop_ getting Asami’s order wrong.’ 

The problem was, he had the slightest feeling that he _had_ anyway.

Liu and Asami had never been the closest friends, but he trusted Amon, and Amon seemed to see something in her that was enough to keep Asami as his left-hand woman - and Liu had immense respect for her drive and inventive ability regardless of that. The last thing he wanted to do was annoy her.

Plus, the last time she’d gotten the wrong order she’d singled him out in sparring. That had been an unpleasant experience, to say the least.

He came to the door of the study. He’d check in with Amon, just to be sure. His hand came up to knock, when he heard something.

_Is that…screaming?_

Liu knocked on the door, loud.

The screaming - _is it screaming? It’s kind of going up and down_ \- continued.

Liu cast all propriety aside and pushed open the door.

And he saw –

In the middle of the room, Amon was – wait, there were _two_ Amons. _Two_ Amons, each facing the other.

Each warbling and squatting violently, their voices going up and down as they did.

Liu excused himself silently, shutting the door softly behind him.

* * *

“ - _or to tutor two tooters to toot_?” Asami popped the last ‘t’ in Amon’s low baritone, quietly letting out a sigh of relief.

“Very good, Asami,” Amon called, leaning back against the desk. “I think that’s enough for tonight – we don’t want you to strain or lose your voice.”

Asami sighed in relief, pulling her mask off, letting it hang limply in one hand. She wiped her brow, collapsing into the nearest chair as gracefully as she could.

“And _how_ long did you say you could do your female voice for?” Asami panted, throat still a little raw.

“Usually around two hours. The danger wasn’t really losing your voice _after_ the fact; it was more a matter of not losing it during the production.” Amon turned around, sliding open a drawer and looking around for something – Asami couldn’t tell what.

“Here,” Amon produced something – an old, yellowed piece of paper. “This is the recipe we used back in the caravan – chamomile with a few little extras. It’ll speed up your recovery considerably.”

Asami forced herself up out of the seat, walking across and taking the recipe from his hands. She glanced at it. When she looked up again, Amon was looking at her, with those damned curious eyes.

“…What?”

“Just a thought.”

“You gonna share it?”

“Merely that while I have shared the story of my talents with you, you haven’t exactly returned the favour. A tale for a tale seems fair, no?”

Awkwardness stirred in Asami’s gut for the second time in as many hours. She looked down, the paper crumpling slightly in her hand.

The answer was heavy on her tongue – she had to force it out.

“My mother.”

“Your mother?” Amon seemed skeptical. “How exactly did she help you with…” he gestured to his throat.

“She…used to be a singer, I think,” she murmured. “I don’t know the exact details. All I know is that she was _good_ at it.”

Asami remembered warm, happy nights in the lounge of the manor. She remembered sitting in her father’s lap, the two of them watching her mother sing. She remembered the sound of rain hitting the windows, the low light of the lounge, the warm arms of her parents around her.

But no matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t remember the _sound._ She could remember the feelings that it had stirred up, but her mother’s voice had been lost to time.

“We used to play games – mom would put on the radio, wait for a duet to come on. We’d sing it together,” Asami murmured. “There weren’t that many female-only duets so I usually ended up singing the male voice. Mom loved it – I think I remember her laughing with me.”

Another sound forgotten.

“Afterward. Any time the radio came on, I’d just sing along. It’s what I _did_. When I was working, when I was relaxing, I just sang along with any voice on the radio. I guess I got pretty good at it, huh?” Asami laughed quietly.

Amon was looking at her silently again.

“Not really as _big_ as your story, I know,” Asami murmured. “But that’s it –“

“Asami.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” his voice had gone all soft again, like when he was telling his story. “This might have been a bad idea –“

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to – if this makes you feel uncomfortable –“

“Why should I feel uncomfortable? It was twelve years ago.”

“ _Asami_ –“

“Besides,” Asami cut him off. “It’s about time I found a use for it besides wasting air.”

“…Alright,” Amon murmured.

“So. What’s next?” Asami asked. “What about body language?”

“Just stand straight, plant your feet. Don’t slouch.”

“Height?”

“One-inch lifts.”

“What about my hands?”

“Your hands?”

Asami held her hand up for emphasis – visibly lighter in skin tone and a touch smaller. “Any idea on how to disguise this?”

“Gloves.”

“You _don’t wear gloves._ People will notice. And one-inch lifts don’t bring me up to six-one -”

“Asami, if they’re focusing on the tiny details you’ve already lost them.” He was quiet, almost sharp in his tone.

Asami looked at Amon. She felt like she’d done something to annoy him but she couldn’t figure it out. She’d done well tonight, hadn’t she? “…Are you okay?”

“Fine. We’re done for tonight – take that uniform back to your room. I’ll have your mask ready for tomorrow.”

“…Okay. Thanks. For the food and…everything.”

Amon didn’t reply.

Minutes later, Asami left the room, back in her officer’s uniform with the Amon costume bundled under her arm.

* * *

Liu fiddled with one of his kali sticks to pass the time, tracing the pattern of the woodgrain with a fingernail. Underneath his seat, the tram cart shook – bouncing slightly as it skidded along hastily constructed railings. So much of the tunnel transit network was like this, having been quickly disassembled, replanned and reassembled to avoid detection by the RCPD or RRF. If he’d had his way, he would spend more time maintaining the damn things instead of having to hamstring the budget to finance the dozens of tiny cells springing up with the recent upsurge.

The cart bounced again, harsh. Liu cursed.

“Something the matter, Lieutenant?”

Beside him, Amon was sat, implacable as always. Liu hadn’t figured out exactly how to ask him about what he’d seen last night – better that it was just one of those strange sights confined to memory, that nothing good could come of mentioning it other than an awkward conversation or more embarrassment.

_Besides,_ he figured, _I’m sure he had a perfectly good reason. And some kind of full body mirror? That he squats in front of?_

As for the sight of the duplicate Amon, he’d have a talk with the chef. He had a sneaking suspicion that the bastard had started sneaking drops of cactus juice into the broth again – he’d certainly had a difficult enough sleep.

“Just the rails, sir,” Liu replied. He never got a reply, of course. Small annoyances like a rough tram ride were below Amon, for better or worse.

Honestly, Liu admired his composure, but there were times when it was more infuriating than anything.

“Yes, they’re terrible.”

Liu blinked. He turned, looked at Amon – who was still looking ahead, like he hadn’t said anything strange.

“Sir?”

“It’s understandable of course – the track is riveted down in sections, so that it can be ripped up later. But that means they shake more than tracks embedded via slipform.”

Liu shucked off his goggles and rubbed at his eyes. Maybe he was still half-asleep?

“And the slipform technique is unfortunately out of the question – it’s not like we can easily hide the necessary vehicles to pour the concrete. And recruiting an earthbender is obviously out of the question.”

No, he was sure of it. He was still half-asleep, and he was having some ridiculous cactus-juice spiked dream about the next morning and Amon actually _humouring_ his complaints.

“…Of course, sir,” he replied, almost robotic.

“Now, if we could invest in a new batch of rails, even if only for the high-traffic areas, with more rivet points – as well as better quality rivets themselves, obviously – we could improve these conditions.”

“Yes…sir.”

“Of course, we’d need to redirect the funds from somewhere else - money doesn’t grow on trees after all. Personally, I think the messengers could do with less money spent on their bikes. It might give them a little more incentive to take care of their – is something the matter?”

Liu flinched. He must have had some kind of look on his face because Amon was looking back, visibly curious despite the mask.

“No, it’s just –“

“Just what?”

“Well, sir – you don’t usually entertain my suggestions like this?”

“I don’t?”

“No, sir.”

Silence reigned for several moments.

“I see.”

Underneath the sound of shrieking tram rails, leather gloves creaked nervously.

* * *

The tram slowly decelerated as it came to the end of the tunnel, the view at the end blossoming from a tiny glow to the expanse of an underground Equalist tram station. Liu stepped off, stretching and groaning as his back creaked from thirty minutes of sitting down.

Behind him, Asami remained in her seat, buried under layers of cloth, metal and porcelain. She wasn’t six hours into the mission and she’d nearly fouled it up already. She hadn’t even been thinking – Liu had started to talk and, like any sensible person she’d talked back – and proceeded to lecture him on the finer points of tramline construction. She’d been so busy focusing on the damn _voice_ that it hadn’t even occurred to her that entertaining complaints from Liu, even if they were engineering-adjacent, was simply not something that Amon would do.

But there was no use getting worked up – Liu didn’t seem to have caught on aside from a few awkward glances. Lesson learnt, recover and move on. There was _work_ to be done.

Asami stepped off the tram behind Liu, trailing a few feet behind. She _had_ this. Amon had laid it out that morning in the study. Just a simple appearance at the Dragon Flats cell, for morale and to check up on the status of the new recruits.

And it wasn’t all bad, either. There was a certain _thrill_ to the whole thing. It was entertaining enough bounding over rooftops in her usual Equalist getup, but this was something completely different. A masked grunt passed by Liu with little more than a nod and a half-hearted ‘sir’ – then he caught sight of Asami, or rather, Amon.

The change was immediate. The man straightened up, snapping to attention and giving a wide berth. He didn’t say anything, and Asami was confused for the briefest of moments, before she realised he was lost for words, maybe shocked or stunned into silence.

_Yes,_ Asami thought, _I could get used to something like this._

“Sir?”

Liu was glancing back at her as they walked, into another corridor – spirits, she understood why all their compounds looked the same, but would it kill them to try and mix up the layout a little? Prefabbed didn’t have to mean _boring_.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Asami replied, only half-focused on the man walking in front of her.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seem slightly…off.”

_Okay, Asami, just play it cool. You are Amon. **You are Amon**._

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Well – I –“

“Don’t stutter, Lieutenant.”

_Maybe a touch too harsh. Dial it back down a notch._

“Well, _sir_. It’s just that I saw you last night. In the study.”

Asami’s blood ran cold – but her control over her voice didn’t waver.

“And what was it that you…saw?”

“I saw you, sir. You were – kind of – squatting? And singing, I think?”

“ _Ah._ There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, I assure you.”

“Which is?”

“…Varristhetics.”

“ _Sir?_ ”

“…Yes. You see – it’s my knees.”

“Your knee – oh. Of course?”

“I’m not getting any younger, you see. Just taking a little extra care with my usual routine.”

“…And the singing?”

“Vocal exercises,” Asami replied, with a graceful half-truth. “I _do_ speak to groups of people every day, Lieutenant.”

Liu nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. Underneath the mask, Asami grinned.

_I am an absolute genius._

They walked on. As Asami understood it she’d be checking in with a group of trainees at a morning chi-blocking class. She might have to be careful if she was asked to take part in any practical demonstrations, though. She wasn’t sure what the lifts in her boots might do to her balance.

Besides, she could always just play the knee card again and fob it off to Liu.

Asami’s eyes locked onto the door of the gym. She’d been here a few times before, but not recently.

_Wonder if the ceiling still leaks onto the second mat from the left?_

Before Asami could satisfy her curiosity, Liu reached the door to the gym, and walked right by it. Asami frowned and moved to open it herself –

“Sir?”

“ _Lieutenant_ ,” Okay, _that_ was starting to get a little old.

“Where are you going?” Liu asked.

It was difficult to describe how Asami felt – she was trying to figure out how to respond in a way that would seem commanding and composed, and at the same time she was struggling not to snark at Liu.

“Into the gym. To oversee the class,” Asami replied, careful with her tone. “Why else?”

“What about the address?” Liu replied, his voice puzzled.

It took a moment for Liu’s words to register with Asami.

_The. WHAT._

* * *

Minutes later, Asami was standing against a wall, bracing herself with a hand. There was a door behind her, and the buzz of voices, barely audible – the Lieutenant talking to some grunt about the address, idle conversations between other Equalists – none of it loud enough to drown out her own thoughts.

_I should have known,_ Asami cursed herself. _Haven’t followed Amon on one of these in years, but that’s no excuse._ She had maybe a minute before the hall outside her filled with Equalists, a mix of fresh faces and hardened veterans.

_They’ll see through me in seconds. What am I even going to say? I’ve been too busy trying to do actual damn work, it’s not like I’ve had time to memorise a script!_

What had Amon said about performances? Something about believing what you were saying? Asami thought he was full of shit. How could she believe she was Amon when she could feel the padding around her arms and torso, or the itch of all her hair hidden under the hood? She wasn’t Amon.

She wasn’t the CEO of Future Industries, either. She was Asami Sato – whoever the hell that was. She could cripple a person in seconds with her bare hands but couldn’t articulate in front of a group of old men. She could disassemble an engine with her eyes closed, nail a moving target with a knife at fifty paces, but she couldn’t do _this._

The door opened beside her, and Asami jerked off the wall, snapping her posture straight again. Liu walked out, glanced around for a moment, and saw her.

“Sir, they’re ready for you.”

“Good.” _Not._

Liu moved to walk back into the room, when he caught sight of Asami, standing still.

“Sir, _are_ you okay?”

Asami turned to him.

“Fine.”

The two of them entered the room, Asami trailing behind. The hall wasn’t especially large, but it had been packed with bodies. Hundreds of Equalists, some not even wearing full uniforms, watched them enter. Asami’s eyes locked on to a few as she walked – a woman in her thirties, with a stress-lined face. A boy, maybe all of seventeen, wire-thin with tired eyes. An older man, who looked swamped in the one uniform he’d been lucky enough to get.

Liu stepped off to the side. Almost on autopilot, Asami moved forward, until she was standing in front of the massive group, a few feet of space between them. She tried to summon up memories of the few speeches of Amon’s that she’d actually attended. Nothing came to mind.

The group was still looking at her, waiting.

The silence was deafening.

But Asami was familiar with silence – the silence inside her head, that came to mind when she tried to remember her mother’s voice, and couldn’t. The silence when she’d found her parents, hands still clasped together, everything above the forearms carbonised -

Asami started speaking, and it was the easiest thing she’d done all week.

-


End file.
